Spoils of Victory

by John A. Connell

  “Maybe he had sloppy work habits. And look at this.”

  Densmore pulled two suitcases out from behind the clothes in the armoire. He threw them on the bed and opened them. “A his and hers. All you’d need for a romantic weekend somewhere.”

  “Or to hightail it out of town. He sends the butler home and gives his servants a holiday. His money is ready to go—”

  Densmore cut him off. “He invites you and a girl back for fun and frolicking. They’re still in their jammies and drinking champagne. How does that fit into skipping town?”

  “I don’t know what to make of any of this. But I still have a hard time seeing murder-suicide.”

  “Look, I had a homicide case once where the guy prepared a full-blown candlelit dinner for his wife, then halfway through, he strangled her. There ain’t no rhyme or reason to people.”

  Mason let Densmore go on about his cases as a St. Louis detective, while he used a handkerchief to go through the contents of the desk drawers: letters from Winstone’s wife, a few memorandums from the CIC office in Frankfurt, a few local newspapers from Schenectady, New York, Winstone’s hometown, but nothing he could use. Among the papers in the top drawer, he did find a smaller version of the photograph of Hilda and her fellow skaters at the Casa Carioca. He put the photo in his pocket and closed the drawer.

  Two hours later, Mason walked out onto the front porch of Winstone’s villa. He lit a cigarette, cupping the match with his hand to guard against the biting wind.

  Densmore joined him and lit his own cigarette. “A suicide note, no sign of a forced entry. We still have to get fingerprints from the servants and the girl you were with, but I doubt we’ll get any matches other than the victims’, the help’s, and you and your girl. The techs confirmed Winstone’s fingerprints on the knife and gun. You say they were having an argument when you left. And we didn’t find anything suspicious in the search.”

  “We still have the autopsy. And I want to check Winstone’s office at the CIC and see what he was up to down here.” Mason told Densmore about his conversation in Winstone’s car the day before, near the Steinadler bar. “After he chewed me out for blowing his investigation, he told me that he suspected a new leadership was in town and taking over all the crime rings. That the other crime bosses were running scared.”

  “Did he say who?”

  “He wouldn’t say until he was sure and had enough evidence to prove it.”

  “That’s why you were so interested in his desk?”

  “His desk was the only spot in the house that showed signs of being disturbed. Find out why someone was rifling through his desk, and you might find out why he was murdered. Maybe they tortured Hilda in front of him to make him talk.”

  “All this from a messy desk and a vague statement from Winstone?”

  Mason shrugged. “My grandma always said that I have an overactive imagination.”

  “And now you want to go through his office at CIC.”

  “I know what you’re going to say: The CIC isn’t about to let us rifle through one of its agents’ desks.”

  “That’s right. Even with an order from Gamin, I doubt you’ll get anywhere.”

  “Then I’ll take it to General Pritchard.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Technically, CID agents could question the highest-ranking officers in a criminal investigation, but it rarely worked out that way. “I still want to go over there and try. At least talk to some people.”

  “Then I’m going along to make sure you don’t step on your own two feet. You’re like the guy who tries to run into a burning house to save his cat while everyone else scrambles to save his ass from his own stupidity.”

  * * *

  Garmisch’s Counter Intelligence Corps detachment headquarters occupied a large villa south of town, with the ubiquitous white stucco walls painted with floral patterns, a high-pitched roof of red tile, and an arched doorway, all fit for a fairy tale. At the end of the war it had served as a safe haven for several top Vichy and Mussolini government officials in exile. That was until the CIC decided that this lovely villa would better suit an army intelligence detachment headquarters.

  Abrams pulled the olive-drab sedan into the villa’s parking lot and whistled. “Why can’t we get a villa like this one to work out of? You think they’d have an opening for an ambitious young man such as myself?”

  “They have the word ‘intelligence’ in their title,” Mason said. “That’s what’s going to trip you up.”

  “A pity you didn’t go into vaudeville.”

  Mason, Abrams, and Densmore got out of the car and crossed the small parking lot. A few army vehicles dotted the lot, but Mercedes, Porsches, and even a rare Horch 855 dominated the spaces.

  “First Winstone’s mansion, then this villa and the cars out here,” Abrams said. “These guys are living the good life.”

  Densmore said to Mason, “Think about it: You and I make about two hundred twenty bucks a month. About the same, maybe a little more, back in the States. I don’t blame anyone for trying to make some dough on the side. If we were smart, we’d be doing the same.”

  Mason said nothing. He’d gotten a taste of the good life the previous night, and he’d liked it. A lot. That was what scared him. He’d seen too many cops fall in that black hole and never crawl out again.

  They entered the cavernous ground floor, which felt more like the lobby of a luxury hotel. They showed their badges to the uniformed clerk at the front desk and explained what they wanted. The clerk went down the hall to an office door, knocked, entered, and returned a few moments later.

  “Major Tavers has agreed to see you. Second door on the left.”

  The three investigators did as instructed and entered a small but elegant office cluttered with papers, maps, and overflowing file cabinets. Major Tavers looked to be no more than forty, but gravity was already dragging his face earthward, giving him the look of an emaciated bloodhound. His full lips, the only facial feature to have resisted collapse, seemed to be formed in a permanent grimace.

  “What’s this all about?” Major Tavers said lethargically, as if already bored with the conversation. “One of my agents step on your toes?”

  Densmore signaled Mason to take the lead, so Mason said, “Sir, Agent Winstone was found dead this morning in his villa.”

  “And? Did he die in his sleep?”

  Mason wanted to ask him what part of “intelligence” brought him to that conclusion with three CID investigators standing in his office, but instead he said, “No, sir, he has a bullet wound in his skull—”

  “No signs of a struggle,” Densmore said. “No forced entry, and there was a suicide note.”

  Mason glared at Densmore for a moment before turning back to the major.

  “The man committed suicide?” Tavers asked.

  “We’re not certain of that,” Mason said. “His girlfriend, Hilda Schmidt, was with him. She was mutilated and stabbed multiple times. We’re looking into every possibility.”

  “Well, which is it, gentlemen? Murder or suicide?”

  Densmore spoke up. “My colleague suspects foul play, but the evidence thus far indicates that Agent Winstone murdered his mistress and then killed himself.”

  “Jesus,” Tavers said.

  “Sir,” Mason said, “I knew Agent Winstone, and spent time with him and Hilda Schmidt last night. I saw nothing to indicate that hours after I left he intended to murder his girlfriend or shoot himself.”

  “You two coming to different conclusions doesn’t give me much confidence.”

  “We’re here to see if you, or any of your agents, might have any information that could shed light on the situation. I think we owe that to his widow.”

  “What damn difference does it make?” Tavers said. “He’s dead. You’re talking about two different cans of worms. Either way it
stinks.” He sat back with a sigh. “At least this isn’t my headache. But you guys better decide quick if there’s a chance that a murderer took out one of our own.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Mason said. He waited, but the major said nothing. “Did you know Agent Winstone well?”

  “He wasn’t under my command. He came here on a special assignment and coordinated his efforts with General Pritchard.”

  “Did he share any aspects of his investigation? Perhaps something that might point to a reason why someone or some group would want him dead?”

  “Just the overall parameters. Nothing specific . . .” He stopped and looked at Mason. “Now I remember. You were the one that barged in on his investigation.”

  “Same people. Different reasons.”

  Tavers grunted.

  “Sir,” Densmore began, “did Agent Winstone say or do anything that would make you consider that he had contemplated taking his own life?”

  Tavers thought a moment. Mason thought he took a little too much time glancing over the things on his desk, like he was trying to weigh the headaches involved with murder as opposed to suicide. Finally he said, “He did seem sullen at times. Frustrated with the lack of progress with his case.”

  Mason found that interesting, since Winstone had expressed the opposite to him.

  “Any signs of anxiety?” Densmore asked. “Mood swings? Depression?”

  “I don’t like to talk about a man’s personal life. And I’m no expert in psychology.”

  “We understand that, sir, but any observations could help us determine the cause of death.”

  “He did have tremendous mood swings. Most of the other agents avoided him. He only had the two Germans with him most of the time, like two guard dogs. I have no idea why his behavior was so inconsistent. I understand the trauma of war can lead men to take their own lives. If that’s the case here, then my deepest sympathies to his widow.”

  A somber silence passed between Tavers and Densmore, as if in a silent prayer for the poor troubled veteran who had committed suicide. Mason wasn’t buying any of it. And Densmore was doing his best to lead Tavers through a minefield of lies.

  Mason broke the silence. “Agent Winstone mentioned having informants on the inside of several of the smaller gangs. I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Even if I knew who they were, that’s out of the question. You should know that better than anyone.”

  “We’d also like permission to search his office,” Mason said.

  “Also out of the question.”

  “If this is homicide, then there’s a high probability that it has something to do with his investigation into Nazi ratlines. He even mentioned to me that he had information that might blow the lid off the criminal gang activity. Too sensational for him to reveal to me. Now, if we could access his files—”

  “Access to intelligence files?” Tavers asked. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Sir, his files could lead to the murderers. We have the authority—”

  “Show me. Show me specific orders that would grant that permission from someone higher up the chain of command than Bronco Bob Gamin. Someone who has enough authority to make me give a damn. In the meantime, stop wasting my time. Now get out of here. The three of you.”

  Back out on the steps leading down to the villa’s parking lot, Densmore stopped to light a cigarette. “I told you how this would go down.”

  “What the hell were you doing in there? You torpedoed me with that line of questioning.”

  “I’m trying to save your ass. If you push this into murder, you’re going to be the first suspect. You were there last night, buddy. You’ve got your fingerprints all over the place. The only visible tracks, other than the two victims’, are yours. It’s beyond me why you want to put yourself in the hot seat, unless you’re a goddamned fool.”

  “Why would I bring up homicide if I was the one who did it?”

  “I’ve known a lot of murderers who wanted to get caught. Is that the case? You try to shove this down my throat, and I’ll turn this on you.”

  “I knew those people. For all his faults, Winstone was a good guy, and not the suicidal type. And the girl had her whole life ahead of her. Someone carved up that lovely face of hers and snuffed the life out of both of them. They probably tortured her and made him watch. No one should get away with that. And sure as hell not because it might complicate the job. And this in less than twenty-four hours of those three gang bosses being killed, execution style—”

  “Mason, come on. It’s bad enough you want to throw murder at an obvious open-and-shut case, but then bring up a criminal conspiracy? I’m not going to be dragged into the quicksand with you.”

  “Why are you so dead set on suicide? What’s your angle? Are you afraid, or is it really that you’re connected?”

  “You can stop right there!” Densmore said. “I’m done saving your ass, and don’t ever say I didn’t warn you. You piss off the wrong people, and you’ll have more than a ruined career to worry about.” He threw the cigarette down and stomped on it like he wished it were Mason’s skull. “Let’s go.”

  “I have other places to check,” Mason said.

  “Suit yourself. Keep Abrams, if you like. He’ll be Robin to your Batman. It’ll make a nice obituary.”

  Densmore blew past a stunned Abrams, grabbing the keys out of his hand.

  Abrams turned back to Mason after watching Densmore drive away. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “What’s next, Batman?”

  NINE

  Mason and Abrams waited at the front door for someone to respond to their knocking. Abrams blew into his hands to warm them. Mason’s feet stung from the old frostbite wounds he’d received on a death march from a POW camp near the Czech border. They stood on the front porch of a shoebox-sized, two-bedroom house that Hilda Schmidt had shared with two families, an elderly couple, and two other women skaters.

  Finally a woman in her late seventies opened the door just enough to peek through the gap. Mason showed his badge and introduced them in German. She sucked in her breath, stumbled back two steps, then disappeared, leaving the front door open.

  Mason and Abrams looked at each other and waited a few moments, but no one appeared at the door. Abrams said, “I guess that means it’s okay to come in.”

  They entered the small foyer and turned right into the living room. The old woman huddled behind one of two round coal-burning stoves sitting in the middle of the room. Several beds lined one wall and were separated by hanging sheets. Two dining tables and several chairs sat near the stoves, and laundry hung in crisscross patterns throughout the room. An old man sat hunched next to a stove, while a woman and two young children sat by the other. The children had that listless look from constant hunger that Mason had seen many times.

  Again, the two inspectors held up their badges and explained they weren’t there to arrest anyone and only wanted to look in Hilda Schmidt’s room.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Everyone looked to the old woman, who finally mustered up the courage to step out from behind the stove. With brusque gestures, she urged them to follow her. She led them through the living room and down a short hallway to a bedroom shared by Hilda and the two other skaters.

  Mason said to her in German, “Ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind staying here to witness our search, so there are no accusations of theft by Hilda’s roommates.”

  “Why do you want to look through her things? Has she done something wrong?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

  The woman studied Abrams’s face, then said, “She’s dead, isn’t she? And an American soldier killed her.”

  “We didn’t say that,” Mason said.

  “Why else would American inspectors be here, if it didn’t involve an American soldier?” She covered her mouth and began to tear up.
>
  She started to leave, but Mason stopped her. “We need you to stay, ma’am.”

  The woman nodded, then looked away with tears in her eyes.

  The search would be quick, as three twin beds took up most of the floor space. As in the living room, the beds were separated by hanging sheets, and laundry hung from lines strung across the room. Instead of a chest of drawers, open suitcases held the women’s clothes, neatly folded. A few dresses and coats hung in the single armoire. The girls had done their best to decorate, with photos of movie stars and dancers cut from magazines, and portraits of family or publicity shots from the Casa Carioca.

  Mason had the woman point out which were Hilda’s things, and he and Abrams set about their task. They searched through Hilda’s clothes and leafed through her novels, a German-English dictionary, and a Bible. Abrams looked behind all the photographs and posters pinned to the walls. Mason took the nightstand and noticed that Hilda had the same photo of the skaters as the one on Winstone’s fireplace mantel.

  Mason asked the woman, “Does she have any family?”

  “The only one I know about is her father. And he died in a work camp. She never talked about anyone else.”

  Mason held up the framed photograph on Hilda’s nightstand. “Are the other two women who live here in this photograph?”

  “No, that was taken before the other two girls arrived.”

  She named the two girls, and Abrams wrote them down. Mason checked the interior of the picture frame, then turned his attention to Hilda’s suitcase. He lifted out a small stack of mostly summer clothes and looked through them. The suitcase’s side pockets were next, but they contained only a few items of makeup, creams, and toiletries. She obviously kept most of her things at Winstone’s villa.

  When Mason ran his fingers along the suitcase’s inner lining, he pricked his finger on a straight pin. When he examined it further, he noticed that a small section in the corner of the case had been pinned in place, with the pin hidden under the fabric of a side pocket. He removed the pin and folded back the square of fabric. Between the shell and the lining lay $150 in folded bills and a small piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and saw Hilda had written a single letter then a series of numbers: A47235.